


How The Mind Wanders: A Collection

by daretogobeyondtheunknown



Category: The Shannara Chronicles (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-15
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-12-15 13:51:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 12,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11807274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daretogobeyondtheunknown/pseuds/daretogobeyondtheunknown
Summary: There is always some madness in love.But there is also always some reason in madness.- Friedrich Nietzsche





	1. pray for sacrifice, pray for peace

Your arms won’t reach. No matter how far you push, how far you strain.

Fire courses through your veins, crackling with vision and purpose.

And yet it isn’t enough. To span the gap that exists indefinitely.

“Eretria!”

There are words, forming and falling to the emptiness. You pray for the ability to hear them, whispered across the shell of your ear, gentle and sweet like a melody.

Instead they fall unheard, masked by the searing pain of your tears and the screams all your own.

The gap continues to widens.

“Eretria!”

You hear the Ellcrys’ call to you, jarring and fractured. You hear _let go_ and _you must_ and as you scream louder, you pray it will drown those words, drown that feeling deep in your chest.

_Sacrifices must be made._

Enough blood has been given and you cry _why,_ why mustthe Ellcrys’ have this blood too? Any blood just not this blood you plea.

“Amb-”

Is all you ever hear and enough becomes enough and your world fades to black.


	2. call me stranger for that is all we’ll be

“You should get some rest.”

It was late into the night, the fire burned low, fueled by the occasional branches and prods. The creatures of the night were out in full bloom, their sounds the only noise save the crackling spits of the fire.

Eretria was perched against a fallen log she had found not far from the entrance of the cave the trio had settled in for the night. It was the ideal shelter from the gentle breeze and unwanted attacks from behind.

“What’s it to you, Princess? One less Rover if I drop from exhaustion.” 

When the topic of watch had arisen Eretria was quick to offer first watch, an idea that had earned vocal objection from her companions, still guarded. And so Wil had joined first watch until the lids of his eyes drooped and his body struggled to stay upright. He had proposed a quick rest - just ‘resting his eyes’ - but that had been some time ago, his body currently dozing quietly by the fire’s edge.

“We need you. In my vision, you were alive, not dead.”

“So after that point, then it’s okay? To drop? Gee, that’s awfully kind of you, Princess. Lucky me!”

In the far distance, a scream broke the rhythmic patterns of the night. It sounded human, perhaps Elven. To Eretria it was the unforgiving norm of the life of the forest, even the rolling plains held little in sympathy. To Amberle it was the brutish ways of a savage, unrefined culture, unwilling to change, and a threat to the hard fought unity.

“Look, just get some rest. I promise not to die until we at least get to this place, Safehold or whatever. And… I’m used to this. Slaves don’t usually get much rest. Not like Princesses, anyways.”


	3. in memoriam

“I hate you.”

It is the emotion you know best, know how it feels unbridled and tearing through your heart. It feels a lot like a disease, in how it terrifies and takes hold. You had heard tales of how in the age of man they had cures for some diseases. Maybe hatred was one of them.

“No you don’t.”

Gentle; it is always gentle and understanding no matter how foul you cry or how far you throw. If words were weapons, they would be dead, killed by the barbs that line every word you say, even the most innocuous. But somehow it is immune. It is always immune.

“Don’t tell me what I’m thinking.”

For a moment you hear silence, perhaps the hatred you sow deep has finally won and the last morsel of good has gone. It is a happy thought. Sort of. It is also strikingly lonely.

“You always tell me.”

It is witty, irritatingly so, and you sense a smug smile, like it thinks it has won. Won some small ground in this seemingly eternal war.

“Yeah, well you’re not real. So I’ll tell you whatever I want to tell you!”

Sanity was never one of the traits anyone ever said you had and more and more you see it in high light, growing with each passing word. To be sane involves a degree of humanity and by all means you left yours long ago, somewhere along the roadside. Or maybe in the old chapel, somewhere under the tall steeple.

“Why do you always say that?”

Once upon a time, as the old stories go, sanity was your virtue, worn like a cape and sung like a wondrous song. But times change and so do people.

“Because you’re dead.”

It is the voice you remember, soft and gentle and far too annoying. It is a voice that you know is no longer beside you or waiting, keen with the first barbs.

“Eretria…”

“No! You left me. You promised! And I can’t follow and I hate you so, so much.”

It is a whisper - harsh and unrelenting. You know the reassurances it spews. It feels warm, cozy, and sometimes you let yourself pretend. Until you wake up, alone all over again.


	4. breathing underwater

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > There is always some madness in love.  
> But there is also always some reason in madness. 
>> 
>> \- Friedrich Nietzsche

_‘Never forget what I have given you.’_

Eretria woke in a cold sweat. The night was dark, unforgiving to those without light or the sight of the night. Here there were no voices, whispering sweet promises laced in threats, just the sounds of the nocturnal forest and the heavy rise and fall of her chest.

The embers of the fire glowed, barely there flickers under the thick layers of soot.

With an air of resignation, Eretria rose to stoke the dying embers. It was not an uncommon feeling nor were the broken dreams abnormal and Eretria wondered if one day they might feel more normal than the air she breathed or the water she drank.

Sleep would not return any time soon, Eretria knew. It never did.

-

It had been six days and all Eretria had seen was snow. Snow, snow and more snow. There was a constant gloom, cast from the storm or from the poor turning of her attitude, Eretria did not know.

Nothing she had passed seemed to carry life - not the snow, the rocks nor the ground - and the only sound to accompany the steps of her boots was the whistling of the wind, bitter and unrelenting. It reminded Eretria of the Westlands and of demons and quests. Once upon a time when she had carried a purpose.

Now she was simply a husk and a wanderer, free to belong to no one. Alone and without a people.

_‘The key is in the light.’_

The words of the previous night - nothing more than a broken dream - clung to Eretria like the layers of days old grime, hidden beneath the thick jacket. It had come as words, imprinted on the inner lids of her eyes and unheard in the ringing of her ears. Maybe, if Eretria could have heard them, she imagined they would have sounded distorted, neither gentle nor hoarse, and fragmented like her mind.

Eretria wished for light. Not for a key, but for light and for life and for a sign of anything beyond cold and miserable.

-

Blood filled laughter bubbled past Eretria’s lips.

The room was cold but a welcome reprieve to the seemingly endless snow outside. Dug into the walls of the mountain, the space bore the markings of old wars, symbols Eretria had seen only in Safehold and the bunker preserved from the age of man. It was a stolen home but from the accumulation of supplies, Eretria mused it was a long stolen home, complete with the markings of a young child along the back wall.

Her capture watched in bewilderment as the knife he held covered in Rover blood drew jubilance and perhaps delirium. It was as though he had been expecting perhaps pain and bargains for mercy.

“I once heard,” Eretria wheezed, the sound of her voice fluid filled and struggling, “That the men of the rocks were cowardly and unimpressive. That they fought backhanded and hidden. I guess they weren’t wrong.”

The blade entered with a venom. It left her breathless - throat clenching in a hopes to draw air - and irritated that her death would come bound and by her own blade. Perhaps, Eretria mused, it was only remotely more appealing than death by snow.

As her chest seized and her head felt unbearably heavy, Eretria heaved one final gasp. Eyes held high, shaking and looping out of focus, Eretria refused to surrender; surrender under the haze of some man hovering above her.  

_‘Never forget.’_

The words swirled in Eretria’s mind, like a ghostly whisper, distant and echoing in the recesses of her consciousness.

_‘The light, Eretria.’_

Unable to breathe, Eretria wished they would stop, submit to the fate that bled from her very pores. With the warmth fading from her skin and her focus flickering - the glimmers of a light visible only behind the lids of her eyes - Eretria prayed for the whispers silence but also for its comfort.

There was a scream - blood curdling and filled with a pain Eretria felt she knew. Had known. Had lived over and over and over.

But this time it was not hers.

-

A weight felt like it pressed into her chest. Each gasp for air was tumultuous, a hidden blessing mixed with an unforgiving curse.

The wind howled, alone and relentless. Like a head underwater, it was muted, distorted.

If this was death, Eretria groaned, then death felt terrible. Her body ached, her head lay clouded in haze and the external elements felt too cold, too harsh and too real.

_‘When the wind settles, the safety of this shelter will be no more.’_

Cracking one eye open, Eretria exhaled another groan. Nearby lie the body of her capture; bloodied and mutilated. The wounds inflicted upon her body felt raw yet unopened, flecks of blood crusted to her skin the only tangible reminder of a reality that had existed.

_‘Rest. I will protect you.’_

Sleep settled in Eretria like a well traveled companion, familiar and comforting. Sometimes, if she pretended hard enough, Eretria swore she felt warm arms about her waist and soft puffs of breath against her skin. It felt a little like love in a world Eretria was sure was determined to hate her very existence.

-

The child was dead. For weeks, maybe months. Eretria couldn’t be sure.

What Eretria had once thought were supplies, were more trinkets. Collections of a collector; fragments of lives Eretria imagined belonged to the dozens before her. Dozens who had been subjected to the pain Eretria had felt. How she had lived and her capture had not, Eretria prayed to never know.

A small basin served as a chilling reminder of the fragility of life as it pimped her skin and with each passing wash revealed the dark purples, blues and greens that tattooed her skin. It ached in the most physical and visceral of ways. But more than that it ached in the depths of her chest walls, like an emptiness carved into the flesh that stretched farther than anything ever would.

Fed off the scraps of a dead man’s meal and bathed in the grim of his filth, Eretria waited. When the wind feathered and the sun crested the mountain side, she withdrew.

In the distance, laced with the wiltering howls of the wind was a cry Eretria heard over and over in the innermost parts of her memory. Head down, she pushed forward, each step fueled by a fear that still ran her blood cold: a fear of black eyes, sickly pale skin, and a lust for blood like no other.

_‘When the sun slips, stolen by the mountain, only the forest will be your grace.’_

Amidst the endless rock and heavy snow, Eretria begged for needled pines.

-

Her legs throbbed and her chest stung, the cold air harsh on each intake.

It was getting closer and Eretria had found no tree. The last rays of light streaked across the sky, flickering and fading from existence. If Eretria wasn’t so busy sprinting, she might have caught the gleam of its sickly pale skin or the snapping maw gaining on every stride.

“Stupid… tree…” Eretria wheezed, “I’m not lettin’ some… bald ass demon… win!”

Eretria felt the frigid breath against her skin, spreading like a toxic venom.

“Where is m-”

The darkness swallowed the last ray of light, dousing the valley into an impenetrable darkness: death. Eretria felt the touch of death - too smooth, too cold and too much - and through all of it, Eretria would have rathered death by the hands of trolls. At least then it had been filled with purpose. Even death by a crazed madman seemed more appealing than this demon or any demon for that matter.

But against every fiber in her being - begging, demanding she turn back, to fight, to go down swinging - Eretria pushed her body further.

Months ago, when she had first heard the voice - ill intentioned and chilling in her ear - Eretria craved a state of wakefulness. A place where the voice could not follow. Somewhere along her journey, it had morphed like a butterfly through harsh realities.It felt something like comfort, compassion and maybe a bit like love.

As the claws tore through the fabric of her back, Eretria gave one last push, the toes of her boots finding purchase on the earth hidden beneath the snow. And then she was falling: far, fast, hard.

The ground was absolute yet tender, devoid of the rocky presence characteristic of the surrounding peaks. It was green. It was warm. And breathless, Eretria realised it would always be eclipsed by the emollient white glow of a light that did not belong; not amidst the tallest mountains, the deepest seas, the lush forests or open the plains.

_‘You listened.’_

Eretria laughed - more pain laced whimpers than robust laughter - drawing what little strength left to roll upon her side. The air felt refreshing - healing - upon the open wounds emblazoned deep in her pale skin.

“Really?”

_‘You’re just so stubborn.’_

Settling into the feathery touches and the all too real warmth, Eretria smiled, the lids of her eyes drooping in contentment. The fear that had swelled in her chest, like a disease intent to kill, dissipated and the looming sense of death was no more. In its place rushed comfort, compassion and what Eretria was most certain was love.

“And yet you still love me, don’t you… Amberle?”


	5. the marks of my journey, scars to one day stars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > People have scars. In all sorts of unexpected places. Like secret road maps of their personal histories. Diagrams of all their old wounds. Most of our wounds heal, leaving nothing behind but a scar. But some of them don’t. Some wounds we carry with us everywhere and though the cut’s long gone, the pain still lingers. 
>> 
>> \- unknown

“How did you get them?” Amberle asked during the morning haze. It was just before sunrise, when the last watch began to settle and the others soaked in the remaining ounces of rest. It was a rare commodity on journeys like these.

Eretria sighed, rolling her eyes though she knew it would remain unseen, “You’ll have to be a bit more specific, Princess.”

On any given day, the retort might have played longer, the tease deeper cut. But today was not that and perhaps the cold had settled too far into her bones for Eretria to achieve any more.

“The scars along your wrists. I noticed them first in the river. I thought I was crazy. And then I felt them again, in the building from the age of man.” Amberle whispered, furs wrapped tightly about her shoulders like the comforting arms of a lover.

It was hard not to withdraw, to hide away when feeling suddenly so exposed. Eretria squirmed upon the log she sat, wishing now that she had remained asleep, ignorant to the soft shivers of terror that had rippled across Amberle’s skin.

“Your shackles couldn’t have cause them.”

“Now now, Princess, I have to have some mystery, don’t I?” Eretria asked with a smug curl to the corners of her lips. Her fingers trembled, her body felt weak, terrified beneath the thick layers of eternal protection.

Amberle stiffened and her shoulders crawled high.

It felt too heavy for the first rays of morning light, a time when renewal began and most gave rise to new opportunity.

Time between them was rare - to converse openly and without fear of intrusion. And Eretria knew she had taken that rare moment and squandered it. Stood upon it, stomped upon it, and then by some miracle, expected all to simply continue on. It seemed to be a growing theme for them, a vicious cycle neither Amberle nor Eretria had learned to stop.

“I wasn’t always free,” Eretria stated, drawing in upon her small frame, hoping the very act might bring with it some form of comfort.

“And when you belong to somebody - like some _pet_ \- you are _owned_. Just _property_ ,” as the words tumbled past her lips, sharp and venomous, Eretria felt the bile rising, “They may not have been _your_ shackles but I got these scars from _being_ shackled. Every day.”

Eretria would never forget. The scars that littered her body and the way her stomach _churned_ were the ever present reminders. Reminders that what once was could always become again.

“I am so sorry, Eretria” Amberle whispered her throat hoarse, “I never kn-”

“Why would you?” interrupted Eretria, rising to her feet, anxious to find respite, to find some task to busy her hands and calm her mind, “You are a princess after all. And didn’t you say, Rovers are just lying thieves?”

Reaching forth, fingers searching for purchase on something, anything, if only to keep Eretria close, Amberle ushered, “I did, Eretria, I did and I am so sorry. If I could take them back-”

Like a fire had ignited within her, blazen and uncontrolled, Eretria spun round, batting aside the feathery touch as though it were a fuel and distance was respite, “Don’t,” she hissed, cold and afraid.

“No, I was wrong!” Amberle cried, rising to her feet, standing toe to toe with Eretria.

Perhaps, it was their place, eternally, to be at odds. Two opposing forces on the spectrum of life, no place among the stars for them; the Elven princess and the Rover.

Forlorn, Amberle extended the tips of her fingers in search of the unsmooth skin, tellingly blemished. Her tears streamed unabated, “These scars,” Amberle managed a ghost of a smile when Eretria did not draw back, allowing the pads of her fingers to trace the raised skin, “They are the stories I don’t know. But I want to know. I want to understand.  _Every part_. Good and bad because that is what makes you _you_.”

“Wh-why would you want that?”

Amberle smiled, teary eyed, a choked laugh escaping, “Because _you_ are amazing,” with her hand, Amberle motioned round to the stirring bodies and tall looming forest surrounding them, “Brash, loud and kind of obnoxious-”

“Gee, thanks Princess you really know how to make a girl-”

“Stop cutting me off,” Amberle ordered, pressing her lips softly against the farthest corner of Eretria’s lips, earning a sharp gasp, “You’re brash, loud, obnoxious and sometimes just rude, but more than that you are steadfastly loyal, considerate, and beautifully annoyingly complicated.”

Eretria rolled her eyes at the last remark but allowed herself to be drawn in, a moment for two in the breaking rays of light, shroud in a haze of unknowns.

“You’re… you know,” fumbling over the words, Eretria shrugged like it spoke volumes when her words would not, “Annoying too. And stuff.”


	6. habitus

Amberle couldn’t recall the last time she had felt the comfort of a bed or the feel of soft furs that coddled her, warm and cozy, like an infant. Had it been before the Gauntlet or perhaps when she had returned from abandoning her duty as one of the Chosen?

Never in her wildest dreams would Amberle have imagined that the quest for the Ellcrys would be her last as an Elf and that the very duty of Chosen would become literal, the forever embodiment and protection to the Ellcrys.

Through the open window, a cool breeze trickled in. It sent shivers down her spine but Amberle welcomed the sensation. The Ellcrys was neither cold nor warm, it just _was_ and Amberle had almost forgotten what it was like to feel such a simple discomfort.

“Would you just come to bed already?” Amberle mumbled into the fur, an exhaustion washing over her that she had not felt as the Ellcrys. It amazed her, how many differences existed between life in the Westland’s and life suspended within the Ellcrys.

“I wasn’t sure if you would want me.”

Turning towards the voice, Amberle blinked lazily, sleep tugging on her conscious, “Why would you think that?”

Eretria shrugged, “Habit?”

Patting the space before her, Amberle murmured, “New habit?”

There was an ease - the words spoken, the mannerisms – as though it was a conversation had thousands of times before. And perhaps it had, spoken in hushed whispers high in the crimson canopy when no one knew they even existed.

“Okay,” Eretria said, the dark Elven coat already draped over the back of the nearby armchair, her fingers working at the leather ties of her tunic.  


	7. finis origine pendet

_“Get out.”_

A sweater hadn’t been the wisest of choices. It was an unseasonably cold January and the snow easily piled a foot high making it difficult to navigate in suede High-Tops. Also, another choice that lacked in wisdom. Eretria clung to the little warmth retained by the fabrics of her clothes. The cold wet soppy mess that were her feet had long past salvageable and in a moment of despair, Eretria mourned the loss of her favourite shoes.

_“You lied-”_

The streets were quiet. The sound of the snow crunching under the soles of her shoes echoed down the path, unmasked by the odd dog that barked in the distance or the rustling of leaves in the winter breeze.

Often, silence was the space which Eretria loathed, leaving her stumbling through the memories that lingered like the scent of bile. Now, Eretria craved it, hoping somehow, someway, it would mend the chill in her bones or the gape in her chest.

_“How could you!”_

Eretria exhaled. The pressing weight clung to her shoulders like an invisible cape made of Earth itself. Not even the bitter chill gave comfort and Eretria wished if she just stayed a bit longer, something would give.

But it wouldn’t and no matter how far or how long, time had the most ironic way of catching up.

Walking up the steps - three flights, no elevator - Eretria did not expect the warm embrace or the hot tears that froze to her bluish skin.

“I’m sorry.”

It was an apology meant to encompass more than inconvenience. It was an apology meant for a lifetime - of stupidities and blunders and instances of hesitance - all wrapped in one. It was an apology meant only for one.

There were no words just ushering and warm blankets, like pins and needles against her skin, meant to comfort but only drew pain.

Ignoring the inward call for rest and for silence, Eretria pressed forth, allowing the pain to be her reminder of the reality that awaited and the consequences she must bear.

“I mean it. I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Amberle hummed after a long pause, arms wrapped about her midsection in a show of insecurity.

Internally, Eretria cursed. Cursed her thoughtlessness; cursed her ingrained insecurities; cursed this chasm she had erected between them, seemingly endless and insurmountable.

“I fucked up. I want to fix it.”

“I know.”


	8. chained

“ _Run_.”

There was no jovial tone or good natured jest.

“ _Run. Don’t look back.”_

The scream reverberated through her ears and buried into the walls of her chest. It was suffering. It was agony. It was death. Unlike the cold sweat beading down her back, it would never evaporate. Forever it would play, fragmented, but no less earth shattering.

* * *

Demons made sense.

“Run!”

And Eretria hated it with every fiber of her being.

“Come on, Eretria!”

Hands white knuckled on the handles of her knives, Eretria vowed to find a way. To kill every last one. To erase every last one from the Four Lands.

* * *

And then, Amberle was some stupid tree and Demons and old adages angered Eretria all the more.

She was never welcomed in the court of the Elves and once again on the outskirts, Eretria fought. Fought to exist. Fought in search of purpose. Fought to find a way.

It led her over the hills and through the trees. One day, it gave way to sand and a thirst Eretria had never known. But it too did not last.

High in the hills, a man whispered tales of an old forest. Born of magic, he claimed. Protected by a magic far older than Demons, he uttered.

Cursed.

Nothing could be more cursed than her life and Eretria refused to heed his warning. Perhaps there she would finally find a way to silence the eternal scream that bled from her bones and seeped into her blood.

And maybe it would know of trees and stupid old adages.

* * *

The whispered tales led her to flat plains and a blind mystic.

Magic, she promised. But other than deep lines of pain etched into the palms of her hand and a wounded past, Eretria learned little she did not already know.

But there was a book, written in a language Eretria did not know.

It wasn’t Elven nor was it human and all the mystic could offer was the name of a Gnome deep in the Eastland likely centuries passed. Maybe killed by a Demon.

It felt whimsical but so did her life and Eretria wondered if it had ever truly held any semblance of fruitful direction. Maybe once. A long time ago. With stupid Royal Elves and Druids and Demons. But it wasn’t any more and Eretria had no better means.

* * *

The Silver River was sick: Mord Wraiths.

Its illness seeped into the lands downstream. Travelling the shoreline, Eretria felt brief remorse. Livestock carcasses dotted the fields, crops withered to waste, and sallow bodies lined shallow graves.

One grave digger left.

It made the anger in her heart seem fatuous and her scattered purpose bright. It churned in her stomach like an ill settled meal and Eretria heaved. She doubted the black bubbling derelict form of the Silver River would feel anymore distressed.

The sensation burned in her nostrils and in a fading moment of delirium, Eretria realised it wasn’t the stench of her bile that burned.

* * *

Out of body, Eretria bore witness to an encounter between a young boy and a silver haired man.

Jair Ohmsford and the King of the Silver River, Eretria learned. One was in search of his sister and the other apt to save a dying stream. There was a dust made of Silver and a tale woven of pain and of tribulation.

Everyone spoke in cryptic, Eretria concluded. A disease of an outdated belief and a dying kind.

But then, Eretria believed in Demons and in magic and in a hope of defying the very lines of her lineage to eradicate a beast no human truly could.

There was a Gnome and the spreading of the Silver Dust. It cleansed the bubbling black river and gave way to the Maelmord, a subverted sister Brin and a book of black magic.

The Ildatch was powerful. But as Eretria watched the collapse of its form and the destructive poison of its power, she settled back into her heaving form. There, the river was still black and a dark haze still clung to the air.

Eretria wanted power. But not a power that would rob from her of the essence of her very being. To become what she sought to remove was never the answer and weak, Eretria trudged on. Past a dying river and past an ominous power.

* * *

How long had it been – weeks, months, years?

Seasons had changed and so had Eretria. Malnutrition oozed from her body like the fat on her bones, leaving her skin sunken and her bones prominent. The havoc of the Silver River had trickled further and deeper than Eretria had ever imagined. And now, delirious and weak, every direction seemed wrong and everything dead.

The last living _thing_ Eretria could recall was the sunken in eyes of a harrowed man as he dug the graves of those around him. There was nothing left. No living creature. No vegetation. Not even a single Demon.

Eretria begged for one, just one. So perhaps she could at least die feeling at least some ounce of worth.

_“Coward.”_

Feet trudging – one arduous step after the other – Eretria could not disagree. Every part of her felt cowardly, willing to give in to an inescapable defeat. An eternal defeat.

But still her feet refused to stop.

It felt lonely.

Then again, so had most of her life.

* * *

There was a stream not like that of the Silver River whose form oozed black. As she stumbled forward, earthbound and wretched, its petals cushioned the blow. Soft and cozy like a blanket on a cold winters night, the petals brushed over her skin.

It provided no comfort to thirst or to hunger, a light pink petal contrasted to the lifeless trees and endless miles of mud and stone. Yet Eretria felt sated.

The hollow feeling in her chest still clung like a demon on her heart – alone, afraid, hopeless. She had never asked for much in life. A purpose, a way, even a glimmer of hope would have sufficed. Instead, it had handed her broken pieces and fragmented memories and a heart that would never truly love.

If tears could fall, Eretria would cry. Sob for a life unfulfilled, for a potential unrealized and a pain that had never truly left the bones of her body.

And then it came. Soft like a whisper and gentle like a summers breeze. It was a voice, warm, welcoming and inquiring.

_“Is this how you would lay, child? Surrendered to defeat?”_

“What would you have me do? I am alone. I am dying. And I am afraid.”

_“As you should; be afraid. For it is daunting. It is uncertain. And most often, we will be left with only our thoughts and our heart as guidance.”_

It felt warm, nothing like the eternal desolate cold that seemed to suck and steal the very life from the marrow of her bones. With each step. With each unshed tear.

_“Be alone. Be prepared to die. Be afraid.”_

Anguish poured, ragged and primitive, passed her lips. To be swallowed by the endless sky and the sheer _emptiness_.

“I am! I am, I am, I am! I wish it not. I want it not. Please… have mercy.”

_“Fight. Only there will you find mercy, my child.”_

* * *

It was warm, a white light that engulfed her skin and licked at her blood. It made her skin hum and her nerves tingle with a liveliness Eretria had never felt.

In the back of her mind, a voice spoke, faint and inquisitive. It whispered soft verses, like a poem written on the walls of her soul, projected through her being. Eretria could _see;_ the words of the book she had garnered long ago. Gifted by a mystic and carried like a tomb.

None of it made sense.

Blanketed by the flowing stream of petals, the white light fading, Eretria felt another. It was dark, a void that lingered, drawing closer and without warning into her frame, pushing past her skin as if it were a sheer veil.

It was burning. It was painful. It was death.

And then there was another, lingering beneath her skin and settled in her bones. Unlike the screams, it wrapped around her skin like the strange words written and bound and without beseeching it fought, batting the darkness that crawled beneath her skin.

From her pores, the darkness bled. 

Alone, afraid and no longer dying, Eretria understood.

_“Fight._ ”

For so long, she had run. Alone and afraid. Taught never to fight back no matter how deeply she might crave the stance; like an gulp of fresh air while chained underwater. 

Legs trembling, body weak, Eretria stood. Through her veins coursed resolve. There were no petals, no white lights and no dark voids. 

“ _Fight.”_


	9. til death do us part, with the last beat of my heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Remember me - I will remember you.  
>   
> \- Surah Al-Baqarah

It burned. Like a fire settled in her bones that no water could extinguish.

The cloth pressed to her temple was a chilling relief mixed with a harsh sting.

“Good thing you’ve got a hard head,” Amberle teased.

They were words, Eretria imagined, meant more to ease the trepidation that had seeped into Amberle than for herself.

To move felt like a thousand knives piercing behind her eyes, at the base of her skull, and all along the right side of her body. And to speak felt impossible, like the back of her throat was suddenly the Kierlak desert, deprived of all forms of liquid. So Eretria settled for a discomforted wince and hoped somehow the Elven princess would understand. Understand the words and thoughts Eretria couldn’t seem to formulate.  

“Wil is going to be back soon,” Amberle soothed, combing her fingers through the damp, blood matted section of Eretria’s hair.

Eretria wondered how she had ever ended up in this whole “save the world” mess and why she had ever thought that tossing her own body – a tiny living, breathing, rover shield – in the way of _a demon_ , of all things, was the smartest of ideas. Like the notion of impending doom and a mace wielding hell born were just an everyday occurrence and Eretria should take it head on. 

Literally.

Perhaps hard headed was the understatement of the century.

Breathing heavy, Eretria caught Wil skidding to a halt, “Okay, I got it- I got- Just hang on, okay Eretria?”

“Wil!” Amberle admonished, “Just make whatever you’re going to make and hurry!”

The paste itself was cool but upon her skin, excoriated and bleeding, it felt like an electric current snapping through her with a destructive precision. It took Amberle and the full weight of her body to keep Eretria from squirming away, her whimpers breaking the night air.

-

“How are you feeling?”

Disorientated, vision blurring in and out of focus, Eretria swallowed. The lump in her throat felt like the size of an island just without any surrounding water. Nothing wanted to move and it all felt jagged edged and _stupid_.

The hand, cool and like reprieve on her scorching skin, made Eretria wish words would form, to direct it back to the patch of skin it had just skimmed over. But nothing came and Eretria slipped back into darkness.

-

It was as dark outside as it was in her mind. If it weren’t for the soft glowing embers and the warmth pressed into her side, Eretria would have thought it nothing more than the delirium that held her captive – a mixture of the poison and blood loss.

“She hasn’t left your side, you know.”

Eretria caught a glimpse of gold locks and pale skin. Nothing focused but Eretria felt she knew the voice like the back of her hand, the way it rose and fell and it stuttered around certain sounds. It paid, amidst the dense brush and unfamiliar territory, to know the distinction between friend and foe. Or well, foe and less foe.

“She won’t let us leave.”

The intonation Eretria had memorized came fused with displeasure and maybe ire.

“People are dying and we’re just sitting here.”

Words failed to form, caught in the lump somewhere in her throat. She had never asked for this; had never asked for them to stay. She chose this stupid save the world business. She never asked to be saved.

-

The flames licked her skin, scorching and blistering. White fluid oozed from her pores and her innards churned violently. Obsidian orbs and sickeningly pale skin lingered along the edge, its maw snapping in the most inhumane of ways.

Eretria woke with a start.

The sky was a soft pink and the sound of creatures of the forest echoed through the chilled morning air.

“Nightmare?”

Careening her head to the side, Eretria caught chestnut coloured hair and maroon armour huddled over bent legs. The soft tones of the morning sky and the dying embers made Amberle look more like a young child alone and afraid than a princess on a journey to save the Four Lands. 

“Yeah.” 

The sound stuck to the back of her throat and came out in the most hoarse and fragmented of ways. Eretria hardly recognized it. 

“My uncle drank his away. He always told me to think of happy memories. To replace the bad ones.”

Wincing around her words, the tendrils of pain climbing through her body, Eretria jested, “I don’t suppose you have anything to drink then? Stone ale maybe?”

It soothed Eretria how warm Amberle’s laughter felt. And the utter confusion pressed into Wil’s sleep creased brow might have also been placating. 

-

“Go!” 

The grunts of the trolls echoed down the narrow halls, reverberating through the greater space with deafening gusto. 

“No, we can’t- Eretria!” Amberle cried frantically, reaching back through the gaps in the metal gate. 

Part of Eretria felt relieved, reveling in the desperation that clung to the words and the motions. It felt like purpose, like more than just possession. What remained felt broken-hearted, angry and perhaps a little envious. 

Amberle would live.

“Save me some ale, okay?” Eretria managed with a half upward curl of her lips, more smirk than grimace she hoped. 


	10. solis

It was vicious.

Eretria had fought nearly everything: trolls, elves, humans, dwarves, demons. If it was a creatures that reared its ugly head somewhere in the Four Lands, it had probably crossed the edges of Eretria’s blades.

And for everything she had fought, Eretria felt weak and helpless against the waves of heat currently rolling through the valley. If it wasn’t several days travel to the nearest coast - under the open exposure of the relentless sun - Eretria would have surely packed nights ago.

“Stop groaning.”

The order only incited a more elongated and insufferable moan - an act of spite rather than true need.

“Oh for the love of… Eretria!”

While the heat might have been relentless and bogged Eretria with a seemingly physical burden upon her shoulders, it could never capture the joy Eretria got when disobeying Amberle.

“I hope you melt into that floor.”

From the cool marble tile, Eretria felt her lips curl and the plaguing heat temporarily dissipate.

“But who will get under your skin then, dearest? We both know Wil just isn’t-”

The soft cushion that flew through the air hit her smack dab in the back of the head. But the searing throb to her head as it jolted forward against the smooth marble was worth every ounce of pain. Because it was vicious, truly so. But the way Amberle huffed - all indignation smattered in affection - was the freedom Eretria had grown to love. Vicious heat and all.


	11. hold me captive, abandon me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > … he left me as he found me, waiting and bruised, but now also willing and broken.   
> I shakily tend my wounds, mystified if I have flown, or fallen.
>> 
>> \- Bird (Broken Pieces) by Rachel Thompson

“And what makes you think you are any different?” **  
**

Eretria clenched her fists. All of her life all she had ever heard were disparaging words, mixed with blatant laughter, tossed back in her face. It was as if all Eretria was ever capable of was death, destruction and an unhappy existence, branded to her skin like the red marks upon her shoulder. There was never potential, never hope.

“Why do you care what I think?” Eretria snapped, her ire bubbling deep beneath her skin, frothing forth in the irritation in her voice, “I could die and it’d be good riddance to you. Or do you think I can’t see the way all of you look down your nose at me and avoid me like I’m Death itself? Oh, sorry, stupid Rover, right?”

“Eretria,” Allanon cautioned.

“No, screw you!” Eretria retorted, “You’re not any better! I’m just convenient when you need something.”

In the heart of the Elven palace, standing before the King, the members of the High Elven council and Allanon, Eretria had never felt more imprisoned. At least as a Rover, a possession of Cephalo, weapons hung at her waist, Eretria was able to walk freely about the camp, a band of misfits. Here, every step was scrutinized and section after section remained off limits, regardless of whether Eretria had sacrificed her blood and very life for the Ellcrys.

The council protested, breaking out in a discord of words, like her accusations were too much, a finger pointed in all the wrong places. Ungrateful she heard. Less worthy implied. Even the eyes of Allanon echoed only with disappointment, as though her outburst were wrong, inaccurate, and troublesome. And maybe it was, but Eretria was tired of playing the fool, of blindly turning an eye to the way she was being treated.

“Enough,” ordered King Ander from his throne, a silent observer up until that moment.

Eretria had heard murmurs, that the council held passing respect for the King. A shadow of those who had passed before him, she heard whispered.  He had never spoken much to Eretria and perhaps even less to Wil, his words more indirect and his tone crestfallen. Eretria had wondered if losing Amberle had broken him too.

“I, King Ander of Arborlon, grant this young Rover, Eretria, access to that which she seeks here today,” the King decreed, his voice vacant yet authoritative.

The cries of outrage were instantaneous and yet Eretria watched as the King held his own, stoic in the face of the chaos. The crown resting upon his head, beautifully crafted yet simple, seemed more decorative than symbolic as Eretria listened to the calls of foolishness, impracticality and even cowardice. His own people, Eretria realised, were so quick to denounce their very own, quick to find sacrificial escapes than hold inquiry and seek the truth.

“You cannot do this,” one voice shouted.

“Your Grandfather would never have spoken such foolishness,” came another.

“And he is dead,” King Ander replied, his stance unwavering but his very being broken, “As are Aine and Arion. I am not the King Arborlon asked for but I am the King they have.”

It was an admission that appeared to startle the uprising, quelling their voices and drawing their attention. This King was the de facto King of the Elven people. It was never his role to fill, carrying the place of the drunkard and foolish boy with apparent ease. The circumstances that had led to his assent were tragic, stripped of every living member of his family and taunted by their memories.

“King Ander-“

“There is nothing more to be discussed. You are all dismissed.”

A hesitance gripped those in the room and Eretria wondered if one would not speak out, refusing to accept the decision of their King. But when the first turned, another followed and then another until only Allanon and Eretria remained. This elf was not her King, Eretria thought as she turned to follow, but that did not mean she could not respect him, perhaps more now than ever before.

“Please stay, Eretria,” came the broken voice of a King, masked by the fortified walls of the royal crest and stature of a fate he never desired, “Allanon, I am sure you have much to do. I do believe Wil Ohmsford has returned. Please see to him.”

It was not a suggestion, Eretria realized, as Allanon reluctantly withdrew, visibly displeased with the actions of Arborlon’s King. A wave of uncertainty washed over Eretria. What had been meant to a simple request had turned into dissent and adversaries within a wall of supposed safety and Eretria felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand. Sleep would not come kindly.

The silence was uncomfortable and Eretria reached for the knives that did not hang off the loops at her hip, a survivalist instinct so ingrained Eretria knew she would carry them into death.

“You have every right to feel unsafe within these walls, with how my people have treated you.”

Eretria caught movement in the periphery of her senses and turned to watched as the King collapsed into the stone throne as though the weight of the Four Lands was resting upon his shoulders.

“How I have treat you. It was wrong of me. I am sorry.”

The apology caught Eretria off guard and if she had been in motion, she might have staggered. This Elf, who had spoken no more than a few words – more out of requirement than desire – was offering an apology. To a Rover. But from the weathered lines in his skin and the slump in his shoulders, maybe, Eretria thought, they had more in common than in difference and here, in the silence of the chamber, King Ander was acknowledging it.

“Aine, Amberle’s father, had planted the idea Amberle one day run the gauntlet. I taught her how.”

How many, Eretria wondered in silence, had this King shared these memories - these burdens - with? And how many more weighed heavy on his heart? But easing the encumbrances of others was not something Eretria knew how to do, the emotional connections taxing and a liability in the Westland.

“Sounds like something the Princess would do,” Eretria offered dryly, hoping it might bring levity or at least ease the King from his somber slump, “Probably pissed a lot of people off too.”

King Ander chuckled; the first Eretria could recall that she had heard ever within the palace walls.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve never seen Councillor Kael’s face turn so red, except maybe when Ar-“ the words died upon his lips and Eretria watched his features contort, caught in the emotions of a memory.

“Why did you do it?” Eretria blurted the first thought to cross her mind, a mixture of curiosity and sympathy, “Let me do it, I mean. It’s stupid.”

“Maybe stupid is what we need.”

-

Eretria had never seen the Ellcrys. Wil had told her of the way its leaves hung red and the bark was like no other tree he had seen. It wasn’t helpful, but Eretria always grudgingly thanked his words anyways. Whenever he spoke of the Ellcrys, of all its wonder and all its sorrow, it was a reminder of everything Eretria wasn’t. Humans were forbidden from entering the sanctuary much less a Rover human.

Stepping through the doors into the sanctuary, Eretria realised, the description Wil had given failed to do justice to the Ellcrys. The leaves were the shade of blood, like that which had seeped from her body to open the gateway to the Bloodfire, the blood of a child of Armageddon. As she climbed the steps, Eretria noted how the bark appeared silver and radiant under the moonlight.

“So this is what you and Wil kept talking about,” Eretria mumbled, standing before the ominous tree. It was taller than any tree Eretria had ever seen, “And here I thought you were crazy.”

“Sort of,” she added as an afterthought.

Who talked to trees anyways?

Amberle had.

Shaking away her drifting thoughts, Eretria suddenly felt self-conscious, her gaze focused on the dirt smudged to the side of her boot, “So your uncle is kinda cool. Sad, too. He misses you. I can see it which I mean says a lot right?”

The words bubbled to the surface and Eretria felt the need to explain everything to this ridiculously tall tree, words and ideas Eretria had never told anyone. It made her mad, that this welling of emotions came for a stupid tree - of all things - who couldn’t speak, couldn’t hear, couldn’t move. 

Tears bleeding from the corners of her eyes, Eretria held her fists closed, resisting the urge to lash out and find the most physical of ways to quell the swelling in her chest. No amount could ease the growing pain and Eretria wished, not for the first time, that Amberle, this stupid tree, and some fated destiny had never crossed her path. Life as a Rover was at least simpler, whereby Eretria knew the rules by which she would live and die. This new game had no rules and if it did, no one had told her.

“Why did you have to leave?” Eretria seethed, angered by the elf that had waltzed into her life and then waltzed right back out, like she had never smeared her existence all over Eretria like chains the Rover could never remove.

“Why did you leave!” Eretria yelled, unable to contain the swelling any more.

Her fist connected with the silver bark of the Ellcrys, breaking her skin instantly. With a bittersweet laugh, Eretria watched the blood, the supposed key, as it dripped down, marking the pristine beauty of the Ellcrys. It hurt. Not physically, but beneath her paled skin, scarred by the burdens of what it meant to be a child of Armageddon, the raised skin pulsed with a constant searing ache and her blood hummed equally as angry.

_I never meant to._

Eretria stumbled back, blinking away the teary remnants that clouded her vision. It had felt as if someone had spoken, the voice soothing yet annoying, as it burned through her body just as the map once had.

As Eretria strained, certain her ears trained for survival and to hear the slightest of sounds, had not deceived her, the Rover wondered if this place had not made her mad. There had been a voice but now there was none, only the sound of leaves rustling and insects chirping.

Hesitant and guarded, Eretria regained her lost steps, boring her heated gaze into the Ellcrys before her.

“Did you do this?” whispered Eretria.

Eretria had questioned many things life held however her sanity had never been one of those things. At least not until Amberle Elessedil had stumbled into her life, all ridiculous poise and too sharp features. Only then did sanity became a notion in constant question.

Fingers trembling - held a breath away from the shimmering bark - Eretria sucked in an unsteady breath, “Amberle?”

It was like a fire, warm and welcoming on the coldest of nights, coursing through the entirety of her frame, fragile yet strong in the shadows of the Ellcrys. The connection felt surreal yet tangible, like a dream thrust into reality.

_I’m so sorry, Eretria._

Eretria felt the words like the blade of a knife, sharp and precise, burning through her existence. No sound, only a feeling, a feeling Eretria would never be able to recreate, “Idiot, I don’t want some apology,” the sobs returned, bubbling strong in Eretria’s chest and turning her words into an intangible mess, “Just come back!”

Silence met the demand and Eretria drove forward, led by a blinding rage. It stemmed from a loneliness Eretria had only just filled to suddenly lose, to now perhaps gain and lose again. Eretria would rather death than lose it all over again.

_Do you trust me?_

“No!” Eretria cried, her fist pounding against the silvery bark. Each thump echoed through her broken heart and tore through her painfully weak human flesh.

_Eretria, please… Will you trust me?_

The words ‘I will’ and ‘always’ held in her throat, unspeakable and far too much. It had been a journey of a dozen days, not even a month, for a stranger who cared little for who she was. It was a journey marred by death and turmoil and anger and sorrow and Eretria hated how it had embedded deep in the recesses of her consciousness. Eretria hated how she would gladly sacrifice it all over again, all for the one who had forsaken her to an eternally scarred life.

_Eretria?_

Fists clenched against the flickering warmth of the Ellcrys, rivulets of blood dissolving into the sleeves of her jacket, Eretria managed a nod, not trusting the strength in her voice or the words that might slip passed.

_Good. At the turn of the spring, when the snow melts, a Mord Wraith will rise. Maelmord will shift and the book of Ildatch will emerge. The book will call to you, Eretria. It will tempt you and promise you that which you seek most. But please, Eretria, remember this today, remember my voice: you must not answer its calls. The unborn child of Shannara is your only hope - to cease its call, forever. I will come to you, Eretria, of my own accord and time but no sooner. Please, wait for me._


	12. hold your tongue, the future is unwritten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> > Our patience will achieve more than our force.
>> 
>> \- Edmund Burke

“You’re a stupid tree,” Eretria said with a scowl.

“Eretria,” Wil hissed from her side, his gaze nervously darting about the company they held. All Elven - save Allanon - and all very protecting of the tree Eretria had just insulted. Silently, Wil prayed they wouldn’t be thrown into the dungeons or worse killed.

“What?” Eretria said as she shrugged her shoulders high, “I call it how I see it. I leave you two alone for _one thing_ and the Princess gets herself turned into a tree.”

A member of the High Elven Council - Kale, Keel, Kelp? the name escaped Wil - stepped forth, arms folded and baleful, “Hold your tongue, Rover. The fact that you are even _here_ ,” a spiteful glare was given in the direction of the King, “Is a very violation of our Laws.”

“Right,” mocked Eretria making an intentional step toward the Ellcrys she had been told over and over she was not to touch, “Because some old Elven laws mean anything to me.”

Allanon regarded the Rover from his station beside the King, “Might I suggest you watch your words, Eretria. Not all are as forgiving as Amberle was,” he cautioned.

Tossing her thumb over her shoulder, back almost pressing into the silver bark, Eretria glowered, “And now she is a tree! Which one of you idiots thought this idea was okay?”

The question was met with silent. Eretria had expected protests, claims that none had agreed, and yet that seemed to be a false set hope. They all had agreed. Or at least to some degree.

“You,” she whispered, her voice laced with accusation, “You let her! How could you- She was just a stupid Princess! She had her entire life-”

“That is enough,” the female Elven councillor spoke, motioning the Elven guard forth, “Arrest this Rover.”

“No!”

Who said it - herself or Wil - Eretria wasn’t sure but the words felt murky, as if she had fallen into a lake and the voices had grown distorted. There were shouts and movement. It all appeared slow and some seemingly motionless.

“Wha-”

“ _You shouldn’t provoke them. It will only cause us trouble._ ”

Glancing over her shoulder to the Ellcrys standing tall and proud behind her, Eretria gasped. Gone was the tree - crimson leafed and silver barked - and in its place stood sand that stretched as far as the eye could see, a gentle current lapping in, creating a milky froth where the sand met the ocean.

But more than the beauty of the ocean and the sand was that which stood waiting, arms crossed and lips downturned in what Eretria had learned to be the face of annoyance.

“Princess?”

“ _Are you trying to get yourself arrested? Because you’re doing a good job, insulting Chancellor Kael.”_

Eretria blinked, digesting how the words fell upon her ears and how the mannerisms felt so alike, “Sorry, did that crazy lady kill me or something because… you’re a tree. And I’m not.”

“ _I am the Ellcrys,”_ Amberle stated with such purpose laced with some slight twinge of regret _, “You’re just stupid is what you are. Why do you always have to insult people, Eretria? Can’t you just_ pretend _to be well mannered? Just once!”_

_“_ Why start now? I’m halfway to dead anyways if I’m talking to trees,” Eretria supplied with a shrug, her limbs oddly weightless under the pull of the current that licked at her toes, “And why can’t dead you be nicer to dead me? It’s like I defiled your peoples sacred tree or something and now I’m the worst thing since the Dagda Mor.”

The winds shifted and Eretria shivered.

“ _You’re not and I need you alive, Eretria. And not alive in prison but free to walk about,”_ Amberle ushered with urgency, her gaze flickering to the looming shadow growing on the horizon, _“You must go now but Eretria, by the Forbidding, if nothing else please do not get yourself imprisoned or killed._ **I** _need_ you. “

She wanted to ask more - demand answers that this imposter seemed to know - but then the world was spinning and Eretria could feel the warmth of a hand pressing into her own.

“ _Promise me.”_

The light of the coast settled into a darkness then back to the soft glow of the Elven torches.

The Elven guards stood upon the first step leading to the Ellcrys, seemingly frozen. As Eretria took in the remaining state of the sanctuary she noticed how no one seemed to be moving, all frozen by some unseen force, a magic that none knew.

Slowly, steps rewound and Eretria watched in awe as the commotion settled and the eyes of the Chancellor fell upon her, almost daring her to misspeak or do anything to warrant imprisonment.

“Eretria?” Wil asked hesitantly from her side, awaiting some form of a response.

In her palm, Eretria felt the weight of something cold, something tangible. Between the gaps of her fingers, Eretria could see a silver chain that had not been there before, but Amberle always wore it. Or had.

The words of warning - spoken as clear as day - rang through her mind and with one last lingering glance to the Ellcrys, Eretria spoke, “Sure, whatever you folks say.”

It was abrasive but just enough for her to pass, the others in the room seemingly mollified.

That night, as Eretria laid upon an unfamiliar bed with unfamiliar markings, she imagined the waning of her sanity. But the cold metal pressed between her breasts seemed to indicate otherwise and Eretria knew she would wait. Patient and ready for the moment when Amberle would call to her again.


	13. lonely in loneliness

There are moments when you feel unloved. Like in a world full of seven billion living, breathing bodies, you are alone. 

It is odd. 

Because in truth, alone is relative and the feeling of loneliness is unfounded. No one human truly exists in isolation - it is a state, created and fed by a glamorous life portrayed in snap shots that speak of nothing below superficial. 

You are not alone. 

And yet the feeling tugs at your conscious, whispering deceit into the shell of your ear. In your weakest moments, you believe. Feed it like a growing child, deprived of affection and hungry for more. 

Once, you think, there was life and love and laughter. Now only the voice speak and that feeling of being unloved consumes you like a chasm so deep it spans the universe. 

A black hole. 

“Eretria?”

The voice is jagged around the edges. It bleeds endlessly and maybe, you think, you are not so alone. In your loneliness there is another, one who has also lost.

“Come inside.” 

In the pit of your stomach you feel a churning, bile filled and apt to end poorly. Because love is pain and it is lonely in your loneliness. Beside you sits another, one who loves and who lives and who breathes and you feel nothing. Not their presence or their love or their life. 

“She wouldn’t want you to be like this.” 

You hear tales of once upon a time and true love and fairy tale endings and you feel every bit betrayed. Because in this vast world, none of that exists. None of it hugs you like warm arms and loves you endlessly. 

You are alone.

“Don’t be like this.” 

Rhyme and reason feel like distant friends who float in and out of your life. Because somewhere buried deep and encased in thick layers of insecurity, of loneliness, of self-loathing, is an understanding. A deeply seeded understanding that these _feelings_  are lies and the soft, sweet voice of deceit is unjust and untrue and _you are better than this_.

But that does not chase away the emotions and the fears and the way it consumes the very fibers of your being. 


	14. cito maturum cito putridum

The backpack slings over your shoulder with ease. Or rather, that’s how you hope it looks because you’re tired and jet lagged and hardly fit to be walking let alone strong arming your million pound bag.

In hindsight, the four books does seem _a_ bit over the top.

But it’s something you haven’t quite perfected - the art of practical packing because _what if_? And you knew four was extreme and yet, as you tucked the third and fourth hardcover into your carry on, a hopeful optimism settled in.

The fact that you’re the slowest reader in all of the lower mainland was hardly relevant.

Your phone chimes, the incoming messages flooding in. You’d forgotten you’d turned it off long before your flight. Maybe, somehow, you’d thought that would lead you to pick up your books. Or at least that is the lie you tell yourself

It didn’t.

“-”

There’s no word you get in edgewise as you lift the receiver to your ear and draw in breath.

“ _How am I supposed to find you if you go awol and turn off your phone?”_

Sparing a glance at the digital clock hanging on the wall, you shrug. It isn’t like you can leave quite yet. There’s still baggage claim and the point of declaration.

“There’s these things called cabs and-”

“ _And they kidnap you and hold you for ransom.”_

It’s far-fetched and in the midst of bleary eyed travelers, you laugh, loud and boisterous and without a care in the world. Because, really? Kidnapped?

“Because _clearly_ that’s what taking a cab always equates to.”

“ _You never know.”_

Through the wall of bodies, you catch sight of your bag marker. It’s some weird gift shop contraption that nobody ever _really_ buys. Except for old seniors. For some reason, hideous to you means cute to them. You suppose you’re the sucker though who couldn’t turn the gift down. They were an old couple from Albania and you thought their grandchildren looked cute.

At least you earned the title ‘Honourary Grandchild’ and an invitation to the next family reunion. You’ve never been to Albania before.

“I haven’t been kidnapped yet.”

“ _Yet.”_

You swear your luggage doesn’t want to leave the bag claim and it takes all your body weight to pull it loose. The way that it clatters to the floor you’re grateful, in all your packrat-ness, you don’t pack anything _actually_ breakable.

“ _When they realise you’re famous-”_

“I’m not-”

_“Almost famous. To-may-to. To-mah-to. Point is, cabs are crazy.”_

You grind to a halt, much to the displeasure of the man behind you who narrowly swerves to avoid careening into your backside. It’s a very blanketing statement and you’re not sure you like what it implies.

“Wha-”

The guard ushers you forward and somewhere the call is lost. The questions are customary and by now they feel like part of your daily routine. You don’t travel _that_ much but sometimes it feels like it.

The jet lag probably doesn’t help.

Once you clear, you expect another call. Or at least some message indicating something. Instead, there’s nothing and you’re not sure how you feel.

It’s just past 4 in the morning and you’ve been traveling nonstop for seventeen days: eight countries, twenty-two cities. Nothing has sounded more wonderful than you, in your own apartment, in your own bed.

The final set of doors stands before you and a cab to your bed.

“What did I say about cabs?”

You blink because honestly, you’re tired and clearly hallucinating. Because _seriously_ , there is _nothing_ wrong with cabs.

“Fine. There’s nothing wrong with cabs. Now can I take you home?”

If you said it aloud, you didn’t realise but you nod dumbly regardless, trailing behind your luggage that is now leaving without you.

“Wait!”

To this day, it still amazes you that they wait, impatient yet patient.

And so you don’t hesitate, stepping in and pressing your lips against theirs like you’re drowning and they are the last morsel of air.

“I could have taken a cab.”

You delight in the way they huffs and rolls their eyes good-naturedly but never once truly turn their attention from you. Even if you were almost famous, one person to share it with is all you need.

One person who you know has to be up in another two hours to start their morning shift.

“Just let me take you home.”

“Sounds more like _you’re_ going to kidnap me.”

You wink and add a nudge for good measure, your eyes twinkling with mirth regardless of the new level of exhaustion settling in your bones.

“If it’s what it takes to get you home and in bed, then yes, that is exactly what I’m doing.”

In mock defeat, you surrender, lacing your fingers in theirs. Because, honestly, you’re both tired and you’re not sure why either of you are making such a big deal about cabs and events that plausibly exist and are _terrifying._

Maybe, if you both just said what you meant, you wouldn’t speak of cabs and kidnappings. No, you’d probably just confess _I love you’s_ and _never leave me’s._ Does it make you terrible people _?_

Somehow. Probably.

“Eretria?”

It always amazes you how someone so small can lead with such presence.

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry. I was tired and upset. I shouldn’t have turned off my phone.”

It also amazes you how much you know she holds tucked beneath a layer of outward pretenses and how she probably has been waiting _hours._ You’re plane was scheduled to land almost five hours earlier.

“Yeah well, I met a cabbie - waiting. One of the nicest guys, smart too. He wouldn’t kidnap you, he’d make sure you got home safe. His daughter writes. She’s a fan.”

The muggy morning hits you.

Sometimes you wonder if you’re the only one. You do stupid things and say even stupider stuff, rolling off the tongue like water off a duck’s back. You pack far too much and instead of just saying it like it is, you drag convoluted ideas and narratives into the simplicity that could be life.

In your novel, it’s proving to do well. Eight countries in seventeen days kind of well. But in your reality, it leaves this _gap._

_“_ Do you think he’s still here? Should I-”

“I got his number. Figured you’d want to send her something.”

You stare at the open passenger door in awe.

“May I please take you home now, Am? I have a missed call from our bed.”

In spite of that _gap_ you always find this undeniable charm, generosity and thoughtfulness. And around bumbling words and poorly executed thoughts, you realise that _gap_ isn’t so big and from seventeen days, you’re hardly the _only one_. Everyone says something, somehow, they don’t mean and it cuts and bleeds like a wound that feels incapable of healing.

“I’ll call him and apologize tomorrow. The cab thing really wasn’t funny.”

But maybe, in due time, with effort and conscious thought, the senseless idioms and crass overgeneralizations will fade from your first nature response. Because even though _I love yous_ and _never leave me_ and the thoughts of a life without Eretria terrifies you, the harmful implications petrify you more.

Implications brushed in bold based on what?

“Maybe I’ll write him something. A narrative, perhaps, or an epic. Should we invite him and his family for tea? Or maybe a picnic.”

As the car rolled down the asphalt, you drink in the milky laughter with warm exuberance.

“Careful, Am, I see the smoke of attempted thought steaming from your ears. How about we just start with a light phone call _before_ we start planning this man’s future calendar.”

Worn, you nod, unable to keep the tender smile at bay.

Sometimes, you imagined, you were the only one. You fumbled with your words, used irony as insult and played the fool to the way negative social connotations rolled off your tongue.

Seventeen day taught you that you aren’t alone. It taught you that over packing exists and so do unkind generalizations, quick to mind and slick off the tongue. But in it, you know you can take quiet moments, to apologize and make amends. And one day, with conscious effort and work, _I love yous_ and _don’t leave mes_ won’t come tied in obscure roundabout idioms and hurtful thoughts.


	15. inter spem et metum

The car door slammed shut.

“Eretria, where are you going? Come ba-“

Poison laced words burned at the back of her throat, clawing and begging for release. They stung; all-consuming from the inside out and Eretria wanted nothing more than to spew them out, if only to alleviate the way it burned in all the wrong ways.

“Safehold.”

The footfalls ground to a halt.

It was her safe out, when things became too much, it was all Eretria had to say. Amberle was always too kind, always too considerate and somewhere in her chest, it ached as Eretria imagined the look of hurt and betrayal that lie behind her.

Hands buried deep in the fabric of her pullover, Eretria wondered when she had relapsed into old habits; running rather than standing to face her troubles. Because Eretria was mad and stupid but still very much in love and all of this was stupid.

“They don’t deserve you.”

Turning back, Eretria took in the red rimmed eyes, startled by the seemingly out of place declaration.

“Jesus, Amberle, _I_ don’t deserve you. But they- how can you just- they don’t deserve you!”

It was always the same. Amberle was too kind, too considerate and her heart all too great. When all Eretria saw was darkness, consuming and volatile, Amberle saw hope and reason to believe.

Flush with anger, fists clenched around the inner fabrics of her pullover, the memories of the night played over and over. They were loud and obnoxious and unrelenting. They were hateful and unkind and none of them deserved Amberle.

“Maybe they do, maybe they don’t.”

When the warm arms encircled her, tentatively drawing her forward, Eretria leaned in. Amberle smelled like the ocean, salt clinging to her skin and it melded with the calming scent that just _was_ Amberle in all the right ways.

“It isn’t about what they deserve though, Eretria, it is about what we _believe_. And _I_ believe in _love_.”

Wearily, Eretria exhaled. If she were woeful pessimism, Amberle was the very vein of optimism. Nothing about them made sense, _nothing_ fit, and yet _everything_ fit and Eretria struggled to recall a life before Amberle.

“And I believe in _you.”_


	16. Chapter 16

It was moments like these when Amberle can't believe any of them saved anything.

The day had started out like any other Sunday. There was no fixed schedule to the day - an agreement made with Eretria - and the pair were lounging in the privacy of the upper courtyard.

Under the heat of the afternoon, Amberle was catching up on her history of the Southern coast while Eretria dozed, head nestled in her lap. It was all calm, a necessary reprieve from the constant sessions with the council and attempts to draw peaceful borders with several unruly neighbouring regions.

It wasn't until Wil swooped in, fresh off his travels to some remote location he had refused to inform anyone of, that the commotion began.

At first it wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Wil woke Eretria with an exuberant retelling of some tale Amberle couldn't quite understand. And it all quickly devolved into volleys of insults and childlike attacks.

How Eretria acquired the sheers and Wil the candle, Amberle did not know.

“Stay still you short tipped elf!”

“Not until you put those away!”

It was like a dance as the pair navigated about the open courtyard, tossing barbs and stray bits of furnishings.

“You look like a raggedy mutt. I'm going to fix it!”

A beautiful silken pillow catapulted over the ledge, no doubt surprising those on the common lower courtyard below.

“I am not!”

Amberle turned the page. How they could be so childish, she did not know.

“Are too!”

It felt like an odd normality, reminiscent of simple times and days far less complicated than saving the Four Lands and bringing peace to shaken treaties.

“Gah!”

Only when blood was drawn and Wil resembled the most disheveled creature did Amberle intervene, drawing Eretria back with light scolding and a loose embrace. It wasn't that Amberle favoured either side. Rather tomorrow was a day before the Council and that last thing Amberle wanted to do was explain why the descendant of the House of Shannara looked like a mutated Troll.


End file.
